Hope dies
in the eyes of transition.
If it dies
in some sense of realization,
it is saved for face.
If it dies in complete failure,
a religion echoes its refrain.
Hope’s precious
but subtle volatility
lives on ethers from memories
and half breaths
from fractured expectations.
Hope maybe a composite
of emotional textures,
wrap in momentary images
to sweetly suffocate from within
yet for the comforts it provides.
Hope can live on small whiffs
for filling the now
with washed out possibilities.
Yet hope, is that singular bus stop
on the mountaintop of being
where you can see forever
in a friendly distant, though muted
yet inviting way.
Hope handles imaginary crayons
with precision to color the heart
inside every emotional scenario.
Hope has a permission clause
to invoke a deep soothing cleanse
to be comforting
through the passing of time.
But all those comforts,
consummate in service as they are,
for this blessed cause
have been eventually
termed into emptiness.
Sure scent trails remain,
some lucid and still monumental,
beneath the stark of a now’s
immediate insistence.
Hope is as convoluted as this:
Illogically a barking truck
picks me up and drives me away.
It looks and feels like it is trotting.
As I sit in the passenger seat,
I notice it has a I.D. collar
but I don’t want to read its tags.
My hope is,
maybe it is taking me home . . .
Any tears that could come
from this story,
are hollow with a vacancy
that cannot be filled.
Even a solid slap of full dismissal
can’t provide resolution clearly.
Hope’s tears are too limp
and slow pooling to follow
the manmade tears tracks
gravity would provide.
If I stood up and faced the wind
from hope’s announcement
slowly and thoroughly,
over and over again,
would I be crazy to want to
just go to a store,
almost any store
and buy a vast array of things
giving the appearance of normality,
just to hear
the checkout person say to me
“paper or plastic”
and feel again the impersonalness
of the world kissing me
with feigned attention,
while I am still guarding my hope?
I am consoled, truly consoled
by the humor of that.
My heart aches from the longing
but my spirit is quietly smiling
at what emotionally suspends me
from existence in a real way.
My spirit takes me
to fly interior kites,
kites with sensuously long
beautifully colorful tails
against a sky of sanguine sorrow.
These kites, as hope would say,
are pushed up, head over heels tall
by the wind-sweeps of dismay.
How beautiful it would all be
if I just stepped away
from this canvass of feelings,
put my private paints
of feigned existence aside
and allowed my spirit to breathed.
And know now as I knew then,
that we still share
in the same breath
however awkwardly hope exists
as it is does for now.
Other dimensions wait patiently
for me to reemerge,
for a liquid of hope in me
to see the wide expanse,
once again.
That will happen, eventually.
I will trick myself
with next moment’s enterprise
until all of this is
very much compressed and dried
and put away from a constancy
of beckoned attention.
After all,
there was never any mass to this.
This was just, a presence expressed,
feelings smothered in co-minglings
and celestial realms entered
by permission shared.
And so it is,
as hope would say of itself,
not withstanding,
I am an ongoing
ever so slow,
eventual, unhurried eternal death.
One we wouldn’t have wanted,
for this to be so,
but is . . .
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